


Force Of Habit

by Corvid_Knight



Series: Demonstuck [11]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Demonstuck, Funerals, Gen, Smoking, ninja this is entirely your fault
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-12
Updated: 2019-04-12
Packaged: 2020-01-12 04:44:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18439295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corvid_Knight/pseuds/Corvid_Knight
Summary: D has to make a couple adjustments, after Dave rejoins the Strider family.





	Force Of Habit

Handing over the crumpled pack of cigarettes is kinda the easiest decision you've ever made. Like, supposedly there oughta be a moment of doubt that goes along with giving up on this kind of addictive habit, but fuck. 

You saw Dave's face. You saw the look on Karkat's face, Dave's demon, the one who's obviously more in tune with the kid than you're ever gonna be—cigarettes fuck Dave up. Bad. Maybe worse than you can actually understand. 

So yeah. Tossing them isn't a problem. Besides, where do you even fucking smoke other than at funerals? You're not a pack a day guy, not even a _cigarette_ a _week_ guy—you're not actually up for doing the math, but you think that even in a bad year, the kind that has a death every month or so, your average is still going to be about one cigarette every month or so. Maybe two. Does that even have an impact on whatever chunks of your brain would get addicted? 

No. Of course not. It's not any kind of a problem to drop the habit; hell, you should have never picked it up. (One more thing to be pissed at your late brother about, even if it is laughably minor next to all the other shit he's done.) 

Everything is totally fine now.

* * *

Well, it is until six months later when you're standing in a room with too many people talking too quietly and you need _out_ and you need to _calm down_ and you're literally halfway out the side door before you realize that the reason that you can't find what you're looking for in any of the pockets of your godawful black suit is because you don't have them. You don't have them for a very fucking good reason, and the thinking half of your brain is totally okay with that, but that half is still _only_ half. 

You. You want it. Fuck, you don't know if it's because you've conditioned yourself to answer grief with nicotine, if it's just soothing habit, if it's some factor you haven't even thought about yet, but oh _fuck_ do you want it. 

Fuck. 

It's a good thing you picked a side door instead of the main exit, because that means as soon as the door swings shut behind you there's not actually anyone close enough to see what you intend to do. Which is bad wording, really; you're not thinking straight enough to have intentions. You're frustrated and upset (unfortunately normal for times like these, when somebody's dead, a _hunter 's_ dead, when you couldn't salvage a situation and can't rectify it now) and _apparently_ you can't fucking handle that mix of emotions without outside help. 

The one sane corner of your mind points out that taking a swing at the little ornamental tree is a bad idea even as you do it. Actually, that's probably why you manage to pull the punch at the last second; the poor thing's barely twice as tall as you, scrawny and scraggly and with a trunk maybe as big around as your arm (if that) and hitting it as hard as you want to would probably do some damage. 

" _Fuck_!" 

Nope, it would _definitely_ do some damage. To you. Even with the reduced force your entire arm aches, and the bark ain't as smooth as it looks 'cause your knuckles are scraped enough to ooze a lil' blood out already. 

Hell, pain ain't as good as smoke in your lungs, but it's a fucking start. The sane chunk of your mind calls you an idiot, but you draw back for another hit anyway—

And someone grabs your wrist. You know it's Hal even before you turn your head to confirm it, but you still come really fucking close to flicking out the knife concealed in the sleeve of your free arm, putting it in him somewhere painful. Fuck, but you're wound up right now. 

" _Don't_ do that," you tell him, hating how snappy it comes out, and Hal gives you a smile that doesn't have an ounce of positive emotion in it as an answer. 

"Shouldn't I be telling you that?" He nods at the tree, then at your hand—which he doesn't seem to intend to release. "You were about to break your hand, weren't you." 

"No." Eh, that wasn't a question, you might as well own up to it. "Yeah, fine, I was gonna break my goddamn hand. How is that shit your problem, exactly?" 

"I mean, I'm the one who'll be driving you home if you fuck yourself up, D." He shrugs a bit, and you see brighter red flare behind his sharp shades and dim out again. "Look, you can hit me if you need to hit something." 

"What the fuck—" 

"I turned my sensors down, it's not like I can feel it." Another shrug, another smile. This one you can actually read a lil' bit better; it's mostly sympathy. "Better than a tree. I'm softer." 

Damn, that's true. "We are _not_ doing that, bro." 

"Hey, I just thought I'd offer." 

"...no." 

"I can also hit back, you know. That helps Dirk sometimes." 

"That's how he gets those weird bruises?" 

"The ones on his neck? No, that'd be Jake and John." Hal _finally_ lets go of your wrist. Which you kind of forgot he was holding. You're not having a great time with self awareness right now. "Dirk just gave me the go-ahead to take you home." 

"Oh come on—" 

"Nope. We took a vote—" 

"What, you and Dirk? C'mon, man, you know I gotta go back in—" 

"Dave and Roxy too. And you don't _have_ to go back in—there's still Striders here." Hal wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulls you a step away from the tree that you just assaulted with the kind of inescapable strength that reminds you that yeah, not all your kids are actually human. "You don't have to be the only one who represents us, alright? Come on. It's okay." 

Shit, digging in your heels doesn't do anything other than make you look like a dumbass. (And also bring up tears in your eyes that could be either frustration or grief for the fallen. You can't fucking tell right now.) 

Maybe Hal would pick you up and carry you if you kept resisting. In the end, you make the decision to not find out.

* * *

So yeah, Hal coaxes out the whole reasoning behind today's snafu on the drive home, which ain't really that hard because you're stressed enough to be damn near hyperverbal for the whole fucking trip. You probably would've given him a twenty minute verbal essay on classic rock, if he hadn't been talking to you over the radio. 

You kind of do that anyway, but he's a lot more focused than you are right now and completely refuses to be sidetracked by your distraction. Which means that Dave texts you apologizing for taking away your coping mechanism and you read it and tell yourself that you're gonna text him back once you check to make sure you took your meds this morning (the timer on the cap says you did but you really fucking doubt it going by how fucked you're feeling right now) and of course, that's a really stupid move because you spend a couple minutes(?) debating whether to take another dose now or just give up on today as a lost cause. 

Then you sit down on the bathroom floor and spend some length of time flipping through pics of your kids to see if that makes you feel better. (It does, a lil' bit. Especially the ones you've been slowly collecting of Dave since he came home, that let you see how much easier he's been smiling in the past couple weeks. He's safe and he knows it and god _damn_ does that feel good.) 

Then you set your phone up on the counter, flick the light off, and take a nap on the floor. And yes, you open the timer app on your phone so you'll have some idea of how much time you'll be losing. You're not a complete idiot.

* * *

You do not, however, _start_ the timer. Dirk refuses to tell you how long you've been out when he wakes you up later, probably because he knows you'd beat yourself up over it. 

That's a good thing, you guess.

* * *

The kids—Roxy 'n Rose too, not just specifically _your_ kids—maneuver you out of attending the next two memorials so skillfully that you barely even realize that shit's happening. You do notice, though, and even if there's some shame inherent in getting outsmarted by hunters half your age, it's kinda overshadowed by A) pride that you _did_ do the lion's share of the training on those kids and B) relief that you get to postpone dumping yourself back into the situation of trying to accept that you're not allowed to slip out for a smoke break anymore. Weird mix of emotions, but hey, it could be worse, right?

Right. 

An even nicer thing is that this is apparently one of those rare and amazing stretches where few hunters die, either in the line of duty or of natural causes. ( _Natural causes._ What are you, a fuckin' comedian?) By the time that you get the phone call you can't be weaseled out of, Dave's been at the safehouse with you for nearly a full year. 

He's not there when you find out about Garland, though. It's probably a good thing—the amount of pain you get hit with finding out about the death one of the guys who trained you and your brother from before you were old enough to legally drive is fucking _devastating_ ; you couldn't forgive yourself if you subjected Dave to that too. 

Maybe you do anyway, even with the distance, because he's texting you even before you get the time and place and hang up. Technically, you should probably answer him. Or like, at least read his texts. 

Nope. You exit out of messaging and start fucking with the GPS with one hand while you grab the correct shit for this situation with the other. This ain't something your kids can step in for, this time.

* * *

Because you are a fucking idiot with no sense of self-awareness, you almost assume that the problem that announced itself last time won't be a thing here. Again, you're a fucking idiot—ten minutes in the crowded room and you find yourself patting through the pockets of your god _awful_ black suit, hunting for what isn't fucking there like you're picking the scab off a day-old wound. 

You kind of wish that was what you were doing, actually. The scab thing. Like, it's disgusting and juvenile but at least you'd be a lil' more aware you were doing it, right? Plus if you were bleeding you'd have an actual reason to retreat out of sight, instead of just drifting over to a less-occupied corner that lets you keep your back covered. Not that that does a lot for your growing sense of unease. God, you wish—

"D. Catch!" 

Roxy's voice stays just low enough to not be insulting to this gathering, but it still cuts through the dozen conversations that you're hearing and struggling to not get sucked into. You can't quite track where she is, and you don't actually process what the fuck she said to you—but you _do_ see the folded-over paper sack that comes flying from wherever the fuck she might be. 

Catching it is less of a choice and more of a foregone conclusion. Hell, you could probably catch a hurled dagger, at this point. Stress is a hell of a drug. 

"The fuck?" The bag's stapled shut, you find when you go to open it; Roxy actually planned to toss the damn thing at you. To you. Whatever. When you give up and just rip it open, the contents are mildly baffling. 

"It's a vape." Roxy slides up next to you, plucking the ripped and empty bag out of your hands as you examine the black-and-chrome thing she's given you. "Kinda like smoking, no lighters, no smell to hit Dave's triggers, low nicotine content 'cause you don't need that shit and I figure you're only gonna use it like three times a year—" 

"Hella optimistic, Rox." You see the mouthpiece, that much makes sense. Huh. 

"Hey, _somebody's_ gotta be optimistic, D." Roxy pulls a wry face as you glance over at her, reaching over to adjust your grip on the thing in your hand. (You get a lil' distracted by the way her snake tattoo's coiled around her wrist, tiny red tongue flicking out like it can taste anything other than her skin. Callie must be upset as fuck right now.) "There's a button—"

"Ah." You raise the thing to your mouth and test out what she's shown you. Tastes like strawberries, hotter than cigarette smoke, gives you a sense of relief so strong that you almost drop the vape. " _Fuck_. Okay." 

"You good?" 

"I'm good." You are. You will be. You can get through this. 

(Oh, fuck, your kids are gonna tease you so hard over this later, though.)

**Author's Note:**

> and then they DID


End file.
